Sunday, August 31, 2008

So, Boy and Girl Child went to their first birthday party ever on Saturday and surprisingly enough, the house did not fall down, the sky did not fall, and nothing bad happened.

I know. Crazy.

What did happen was they ate a ton of pizza and cake and ice cream, swam in the pool and played video games and pretty much had the time of their lives.

I went to pick them up and the birthday boy's relative (who he lives with) thanked me for letting them come. She told me how lonely the little boy was in his neighborhood. Most of the people who live there are older, like her. And the kids who live there pick on the little boy and tease him.

He's handicapped.

I heard her say to Jason, "Boy Child has always been such a good friend to Birthday Boy. He's never acted like there is anything wrong with him. Birthday Boy just loves Boy Child."

Boy Child overheard and when we got in the car he said, "What did Birthday Boy's relative say about me?"

I told him that she was just happy because Birthday Boy had such a good friend and it was sad but, unfortunately some other kids picked on Birthday Boy, because of his handicap.

And Boy Child said,

"Birthday Boy is handicapped?"

He had no idea. Because he just doesn't see things like that. When Boy Child looks at Birthday Boy, he sees a friend. Not a handicap.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

I haven't met Boy and Girl child's teachers this year. On the first day of school I was pretty much discouraged from meeting them. And by discouraged I mean an angry looking lady told me to leave them in the cafeteria and they would wait there until school started and did I need anything else? So. Yeah.

Girl Child makes straight A's in school. Perfect grades. Perfect behavior. Never gets in trouble. Always gets notes home that say, "Girl Child is so delightful that she might even poop ice cream". Or something.

Boy Child? Yeah. Not so much.

The thing about Boy Child is, though, he's really honest. I mean, REALLY, REALLY honest. So when I go to pick him up the first thing he says is, "I got a B in behavior today". And then he proceeds to tell me exactly WHY he got a B in behavior, and it usually has something to do with talking.

I have no idea where he gets that particular trait. Ahem.

And yes, I know I'm probably a hardass or whatever, but a B in behavior is not cool to me. I wouldn't be mad at him for getting a B in English or whatever, IF he tried his best. Behavior is something he can control though, so I expect him to get an A.

So every day he brings home his behavior report and every day it's a B (and one day it was a D...he apparently had a lot to say that day). He was grounded from playing video games which, to Boy Child, is somewhat akin to having his heart stomped out.

Last week he told me, in the car on the way home, "I was grounded from recess today".

I asked what that meant.

He said, "You know. I had recess detention. I didn't get to play".

I asked him why.

He said that one of the "Safetys" said he was talking when the lights were off in the cafeteria. And then he said, "I don't know why they would say that mom. I wasn't talking".

And I believed him.

Because he gets in trouble for talking ALL THE TIME and TOTALLY ADMITS IT. He really had no reason to lie, you know?

Oh and the "Safetys"? Are a bunch of kids in his class. And they take away recess based on that? Whateves.

So I called the teacher the next day and left her a message. Said that Boy Child was concerned about his behavior grades and I wondered what she and I could do, together, to help him improve.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

So I've been really domestic and crap lately and also really overwhelmed and tired. Because dude, seriously. I'm working like fifty hours a week, walking thirty minutes to an hour a day, writing a damn book, and basically just being kick-ass.

Thus, I decided to dust off the slow-cooker and make a fantabulous meal for everyone to enjoy.

Except, yeah. Not so much.

The recipe called for chicken, rice and seasoning, water, cream of chicken soup, and carrots.

I followed the recipe. Except for the fact that, well, it was supposed to cook for 7-8 hours. And by the time I rolled up? I had been gone ten and a half hours.

And the rice? Was totally stuck to the sides in a big gelatinous lump.

I tried to salvage it, I did. I turned the heat off and moved it over and scraped the sides and so on. I put it on the kids plates and they ate it. They eat everything and declare everything to be the best thing they've ever eaten.

And really, the flavor was okay. But the consistency? Eww.

I felt bad. I'm really trying hard to be a better cook or heater upper or whatever, so I said to Jason,

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

The mother of a friend died recently. He was pretty bummed about the situation, understandably.

Some other people in his life, however, thought that it really wasn't a big deal. Because she was only his step-mother.

I don't have any step-parents. My parents have been married for a staggering 39 years. To each other. My husband didn't have any children when we got married and, despite the fact that people in North Carolina said he must be either gay or a pedophile because he reached the ripe old age of TWENTY-FREAKING-SEVEN without the benefit of marriage or children, he never managed to have any with anyone else.

But he inherited Boy and Girl Child.

I don't like to think about the fact that someday Jason and I will be old. I don't like to think about the fact that someday my children won't be little children anymore. They will grow up and move on and have families of their own. I will, God willing, someday be a grandmother.

And Jason will be a grandfather.

And when Girl Child walks down the aisle, if she so chooses to walk down the aisle, Jason will be the one who walks with her and gives her away. He will be the one who says, "Her mother and I".

And when Jason dies, someday a long, long time from now, Boy and Girl Child will grieve for the father they have lost.

It amazes me how many times the step-parent is the one who is there every single day; packing up lunches and drying up tears and helping with math problems. The one who puts aside money to send the kids to college. The one who sacrifices so that the child can go to camp or get braces on their teeth. The one who lays awake at night, worried when they don't get home on time. The one who prays they will find the right person to marry. The one who picks up the pieces the first time they have a broken heart.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Every now and then I purge. I sell on eBay. I throw things in the trash. I get rid of, don't think twice about, and just, wildly and with abandon, discard.

I'm not terribly sentimental. My great-grandmother died recently and I was pretty much completely appalled at how some people in my family behaved over her possessions. I told my grandmother, her daughter, "When you die, I don't want anything. My memories of you are enough".

And really, they are.

I found, in my flinging, a diary.

I've kept diaries since I was seven years old. I have dozens, literally. The one I found? I started writing when I was pregnant with Boy and Girl Child.

It was confused.

Rambling.

It was weeping. The pages were stained with my tears.

It was utterly painful.

I don't remember being that person. I don't remember feeling that helpless. That hopeless.

Monday, August 25, 2008

I work with someone who...well, let's just say she is pretty much charm-free.

Recently there was a book fair at work. All the proceeds from book sales went to children.

Children with cancer.

So I went and bought a few books. They were pricier than the books in bookstores, but whatever. I came back to my office and the other employee said, "I just don't want to pay that much for books."

And that's fine, you know? I am a firm believer that everyone should spend their own money on what's important to them (as long as they aren't constantly borrowing money from other people and then spending their money on...I don't know. Dildo's or whatever). I know that I spend a lot of money on Ginger's grooming and vet appointments and not everyone would agree that is a wise way to spend money. To each his own, right?

But the other person would. not. leave. it. alone.

She continued on and on and on about how she just thought it was ridiculous to spend that much money and how she didn't think anyone should spend money on those overpriced books and she could not believe how many people were out there buying books.

Finally, I'd had enough and I snapped, "Yeah! Totally. Screw those kids with cancer. They have no idea."

That shut her up.

Today I was talking about The Race for the Cure which I am participating in this October. I'm a big fan of saving the ta-ta's and I really like to support breast cancer research when I can.

I also mentioned that I am planning, NEXT YEAR, to walk in the 2 day walk. It's a lot of miles. A lot.

The co-worker? Looked at me and laughed. Said, "Do you REALLY think that's a good idea?"

Because damn. Seriously. What a selfish buttface I am for wanting to raise money for CANCER RESEARCH. What was I thinking?

Okay, so I'm overweight. I get that. I have a training plan which I am already working. It's FOURTEEN MONTHS AWAY. I'm steadily losing anywhere between 6-10 pounds a month. I seriously think I'll be okay.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

It's almost time for my third period for August, so I am in a craptacular mood today.

Seriously, I snapped at the lady at the grocery store because the ad said there would be boneless, skinless chicken breast for $1.99 a pound and there was NO BONELESS, SKINLESS CHICKEN BREAST FOR $1.99 A POUND. It was all like $3.99 a pound. And I asked the lady who was stocking the meat and she said, like she was bored, "It's not my responsibility what the ad says."

So I said, "Well. What a DELIGHTFUL attitude you have!"

And for me? That's really bitchy y'all. That's one of the bitchiest things I've said in at least twelve hours. At least.

So she walked off and I complained to the manager, and they acted like they had no idea what I was talking about EVEN WHEN I SHOWED THEM THE STUPID AD.

And yes, I am complaining. And yes, I know this is a stupid thing to complain about.But the searing pain in my one remaining ovary is putting me in a really foul mood.

So maybe just read tomorrow. I'll probably feel less like bitch-slapping people then.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Before I arrived at work today I had already worked 40.75 hours this week. I know, I know. A lot of people work a lot more than that. I get it. But for me? It's been a lot. Especially because quite a few of those have been 4am specials, sitting in front of the computer trying not to gouge my own eyes out because what I'm attempting to do is either a) completely hosed or b) completely boring or c) a combination of a and b.

I should be listing half of everything I own on eBay tonight. I've only listed twelve things so far. I hate listing things on eBay, but I hate having a cluttered house more and Craigslist here just sucks.

In the morning? I have to get up at the asscrack of dawn and take the dog to the groomer. Because she smells like an unwiped anus and no matter how many baths I give her she continues to smell like an unwiped anus because her hair is so freaking long.

And the best part? This morning my son told me, as he climbed out the car to go to Elementary School, "Don't worry about anyone shooting and killing me today mom. We have cameras at our school. No bad men can get in."

Thursday, August 21, 2008

I'm at work when I get the news. I'm sitting at my desk, rubbing my temples. Lack of sleep, to much stress, and a really, really, REALLY boring procedure about Safety and Health. It's already not a good day.

A co-worker comes in and says, "There's been a school shooting."

I jump out of my chair.

My children.

She told me it was a high school.

I started searching the internet. Not on CNN. Not on MSNBC. Where was it? What was going on?

I found it on the local news station's website around the time my good friend Dawn emailed and said the boy who had been shot had died.

I went to the bathroom.

I wept.

I don't know the boy who died. I don't know the shooter. I don't know any of those poor kids who had to witness a classmate being shot and killed.

But I do know this.

Whoever sent that boy off to school today had no way of knowing it would be the last time they saw him alive.

I thought of Boy and Girl Child. Fifth grade. Had I hugged this morning? Kissed them goodbye? Told them I loved them? Wished them a good day?

I couldn't remember.

Now this is becoming a racial issue. A "Take Jesus out of School and Hate comes in" thing. A "Rock and Roll Music is the Devil" thing. People are saying horrible things. People are divided. There is more anger and hate than I could ever imagine.

But a boy is dead. His mother will never get to hug him again or tell him she loves him. She'll never get to say, "Have a good day at school honey," or "I'll see you tonight."

The people who love him are suffering.

And really? The rest of us are suffering too. Our suffering is in no way comparable to his family. No way. But it's still suffering.

Because school shootings don't happen in our town.

We picked Knoxville because it's safe. It's a big city with a small town feeling. We could have a life here. Friends. A home. A church.

A good school for Boy and Girl Child.

We have to be afraid now. We'll never feel quite the same again. Things will change, forever. We'll have to fight the notion to speed down the road, grab our children, lock all the doors and never leave again. Just to keep them safe.

Because our version of safe is tainted now. We have to let them go back into the world, as scary as the world is. Life has to go on. We have to keep moving. We have to keep things going.

If you have babies, hug them tonight. If they are little children or if they are teenagers or anywhere in-between. Hug them. Ask them about their day. Tell them you love them. Tell them how much they mean to you.

Due to the mayhem and foolishness of the past few days, I have spent a great deal of time studying my SiteMeter. In doing so, I found the following searches which brought people to my blog.

1) Bleach his asshole

O! M! G!

I swear. I SWEAR. I have never, ever, EVER talked about bleaching anyone's asshole. I've never even THOUGHT about that.

JAY-SUS.

2) Need to lose weight

Get in line, sister. Get in line.

3) Jason loves Jesus

Hysterically? This was my very own husband. I swear to Fred, he really thinks this is the name of my blog. At any rate he found it. And he reads it from time to time.

4) therapist in NC

I don't know any. I know some people in North Carolina who desperately NEED a good therapist and I know of a good therapist in East Tennessee. But I can't make those two things match up no matter what I do.

5) MY LIFE SUCKS BECAUSE I LOVE GOD

Um. What?

6) i love jason and he doesn't know

I'll tell him! I don't think he cares though!

7) don't love my husband anymore and want to leave

For the love of God, don't cheat before you leave. On this blog that causes a whole bunch of crap. And if you're leaving because he's gotten fat? Well, you suck.

8) maury povich show overweight child

I love Maury. He'd probably let me on his show, don't you think? I could confront my ex-husband and say, "I'm 2000 percent sure you are the father!"

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

I was talking to a relative of mine recently about John Edwards. No, not the psychic. The guy who wanted to be Vice-President about four years ago.

To be fair, I should preface this by saying I don't like John Edwards. I did not like him when I lived in North Carolina, I did not like him when he was the Vice-President wanna-be and I liked him even less when I found out he stuck his weenie into another woman's hoo-hoo diddle.

But really, what difference does it make in my life? He's not my husband. He's a private citizen. Lots of people cheat on their spouses, sadly. I get that. I don't like it, but I do get it. So whatever. Makes no difference to me, right?

But I don't like him. I just want to be upfront about that.

So anyway, the relative of mine said the following and I swear I think my hair caught on fire I was so angry,

"I feel so sorry for him. That woman tempted him."

Well, boo-freaking-hoo. Aren't we as, you know, humans tempted pretty much all the time? I know I am. I work with this one guy that I have a mad, ridiculous crush on. He's adorable and funny and nice and I really like him as a person. That doesn't mean I would ever let him stick his weenie into my hoo-hoo diddle. For the love of God.

But before I could even protest this? My relative said,

"And you know...Elizabeth Edwards is kind of overweight."

Literally y'all. LITERALLY, I shook my head. Because I was sure there was something crazy in my ear and I could not POSSIBLY be hearing that correctly.

So suddenly, the first seven adjectives mean nothing. The only one that matters is the eighth. The one that really should matter the least.

And you know, it stopped being about John Edwards at that moment for me. I mean, yeah. He's a dog or whatever. He cheated. He sucks. The woman he cheated with sucks. They both suck.

But suddenly, it has to be about Elizabeth Edwards. Not about how I feel about her (because frankly? She lost cool points with me when I found out that she knew he cheated and she stuck around anyway). Not about who she is and everything she's accomplished.

About her weight.

So. How fat does one have to be before it's socially acceptable to cheat?

I know I don't know the whole story. I don't know the situation. I've never walked a mile in her shoes...or his for that matter. I don't really know how I would react in this situation if it happened to me (although I think the f word would be thrown about copiously and Jason would have to dislodge my foot from his ass). So I'm really not judging them. Honestly. I don't know what they should have done. I have fantasies that Elizabeth would get on television and say, "The hell with this hot mess, I'm leaving", but in the absence of that, I don't know what.

But am I judging people who think that it's okay for your spouse to sleep with someone else because the other person gained weight.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Tonight as I helped Boy Child with his homework it became evident that he was confused by commas, parenthesis, and apostrophes. I tried to explain them several times and it was apparent I was merely confusing him further.

So I said, "Look. Look at this Boy Child."

And I wrote the following sentence:

Jason said, "Go to hell and die y'all."

Boy Child started laughing as I explained what each part of the sentence was. In fact, he laughed so hard he could hardly finish his work.

Jason came over to see what we were laughing about. Boy Child finished his work and went to his room.

Jason sighed. Deeply.

"I can't believe you wrote that," he frowned. "Did you really think that was appropriate?"

Before I could say anything else he continued,

"As if I'd say y'all. Come on Stephanie!"

Because if you live in our house? That was the most offensive part. For real.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

They come and go, these dreams. Sometimes there won’t be any for months. Sometimes they’ll come every night for weeks. Sometimes I think they are gone for good. But they never go away.

The faces change in the dreams. The bodies are the same; small and hairless. Quick. Open. Bright.

But the faces always change.

Sometimes they are boys. Sometimes they are girls. Sometimes they look like me with green eyes and light hair. Sometimes they look like Jason; brown eyes, wide nose, and those little eyelashes on the wrong side of their eyes.

They are my children with my husband.They are the children that don’t exist.They are children that will never exist.

When I married Jason in 2003, it was totally for selfish reasons. I admit it. I loved him and he loved me and that was, in itself, enough. I had been a single mom for five years and I was okay with that. I thought I was doing a pretty good job raising my children on my own. Despite the fact that he lived in my house with me I was still the mom. The Queen. The decision maker. He was Jason, the guy who lived with us. I didn’t assume any of that would change. He would still live with us. We would all call him Jason. I would make all the decisions and rules regarding Boy and Girl Child and he would pay half the bills and have carnal knowledge of me. It would be an ideal situation.

But of course that didn’t happen at all. What did happen was that the day we got married, Girl Child went to Jason and said, “Daddy, can you help me tie my shoelace?”

She had never called him daddy, ever. She called him Jason, same as I did. She and I had never talked about him being her daddy. She, somewhere in her mind, decided that this man would be her daddy. And it was so.

And actually…it was so.

Somehow he actually became the dad. Somehow our finances merged. Somehow he was making sandwiches for school lunches and singing songs to us at dinnertime. Somehow he taught the children things. Important things like math and also things like how to always tell mommy that dinner was good, even if it sucked ass. Somehow we did things like buy a house together and send out Christmas cards with pictures of all of us and even our dog on them.

It was really freaking weird.

But I really freaking liked it.

As a result, I started seeing my husband in other ways. Different ways. Still like a really fun guy that you want to keep around forever but also like a husband and a father and a person that I could have a child with.

After the experience I had bringing the first two children into the world? That was pretty freaking huge. After being left when I was pregnant with twins and giving birth to children who looked like a seventh grade science experiment gone wrong, the fact that I would even consider trying again? Well, it was pretty darn amazing.

But he? Is pretty darn amazing.

And yet, here I am.So many years later.

I have a two-year old dog, not a two-year old child. I have a calendar which stares at me, pointedly, looking toward my 33rd birthday, only a couple of months away. Not that thirty-three is old. It isn’t. But it’s eleven years older than I was the first time around when everything worked the way it should have for just enough time and all the stars lined up just right and there were two babies in my belly.

And overwhelming me, is the guilt.

The guilt when I look at my husband and think of how broken I am, and how he deserves someone less broken than I. The realization that he did so much more than fulfill his end of the bargain and now he is left with…me.

It doesn’t seem fair.

To his credit he says he doesn’t care. That it never mattered at all. That he, selfishly, married me for me and not for a family and the whole family thing just sort of happened. I guess it surprised both of us. In a good way, mind you, but still it was a surprise.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind cats. I think most cats are very cute. I love kittens. I used to have cats when I was a kid, although in reality I never really had a real pet until I had Ginger. We just had random cats that hung out around our house and that we would feed leftovers to periodically. We didn't do thing like, take our animals to the vet. That cost money and we didn't have money.

Also, Girl Child is highly, HIGHLY allergic to cats. She can't be in the same room with a cat.

Our neighborhood has a cat however. I don't know to whom the cat belongs and I have no idea where it lives, but it roams about our neighborhood totally oblivious to the world around it.

The cat, I think, is deaf.

I discovered that the cat is deaf because one day I was attempting to go to work and the cat was trotting along in front of my car, merrily unaware that my 5000 pound death machine was behind it. I tooted my horn a bit, just to let it know so it would move over, but this also did not phase the cat.

Now, even though I'm a dog person I would never hit a cat at all, but I had to go to work and I had to drop Children People off at school.

The cat didn't care. It sat in the middle of the street and began to groom itself.

Girl Child was nonplussed. "Mom, cats are like that. They aren't very friendly."

True, many cats are kind of standoffish. But this was more.

"I think that cat is deaf," I said. "It's a deaf cat."

I moved around the cat gingerly, which let me just tell you is difficult to do in an SUV, and for some reason the cat noticed me.

It looked up at us.

Alarmed.

EXTREMELY ALARMED.

Boy Child laughed hysterically and said,

"Look at that cat! It's all like, 'WHAT THE HELL?'"

Which of course made me laugh so hard that I almost ran into the cat. But I didn't, so no worries.

Since then I've tried to find the cat's owner. I've asked everyone on our street and even some of the mean, weird people on the other streets around us. No one will claim poor, deaf, what-the-hell cat.

Boy Child, however, will occasionally run into the room, look at me extremely alarmed and shriek, "What the hell!"

So at least the poor cat is good for a laugh.

Honestly, though, for a deaf cat with no home it seems to be doing okay. It's not skinny and it appears to be happy other than when huge SUV's are behind it. I imagine the cat is doing okay.

But still. I wish the cat had a home. Or at least a place not on the street to groom itself.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

I've been very reflective lately, and I don't mean shiny. I keep thinking about my life; who I am now, how I got to this point and, most importantly, who I want to be.

Doesn't that sound mature and grown up and crap? I know!

So I've made some changes. I'm losing weight and getting healthier. I exercise even when I'd rather gouge my eyes out and then pour a vat of salt over them. I'm less stressed at work. My house is clean nearly all the time. I'm writing a book. I'm slowly but surely breaking off my relationship with Sallie Mae.

I'm also, more painfully, realizing there are people in my life who don't need to be there. I'm slowly moving in a different direction and sometimes, in doing so, I'm leaving people behind.

It's hard. But it's okay.

With all my new found knowledge and whatnot, I'm rediscovering myself as a mother. Because, as I've admitted before, I sometimes forget I'm a mother.

I never forget I have children, but sometimes I forget I'm a mother.Does that make sense?

Maybe not, because most of the people I know who are mothers have babies or toddlers. They forget I'm a mother too. They don't ask my advice because, hell, what do I know? I just raised two kids by myself for five years. The first five years of their life, mind you, which I have on good authority are the most vomit-filled and poopy. I clearly have nothing to bring to the table.

But I plod on. The mother of two ten-year old children.

But...also? The wife of a really wonderful man who, after I leave him for a Girls Weekend leaves me flowers on the kitchen table. The employee of an absolutely insane company. The friend to women and men of all ages. Alpha female to a really wonderful dog.

Writer of books. Singer of songs.

And above all, mother of two ten-year old children.

No matter how big or how huge my life becomes. No matter how busy I am. No matter what else or who else I ever am. It always come down to them.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

So I'm driving along, minding my own business and someone pulls into my lane right in front of me. I mean, swerves into my lane and slams on their brakes.

I glance in my rearview mirror and see someone behind me, but not close enough behind me that I would hit them if I jerked over into the left-hand lane extremely quickly. To avoid being hit by the jerk-off in the van that cut me off and then slammed on his brakes.

So I did.

The person behind me in the left-hand lane apparently decided it would be a really good idea to speed up.

Also? The person behind me in the left-hand lane was a cop.

So. He turns on the blue lights. I pull over to the right.

All five foot four inches and four hundred pounds of him comes waddling over to my car.

"YOU EVER HEARD OF A TURN SIGNAL?" he sneers.

"I'm sorry sir," I said politely. "I'm sure you saw that ChemLawn van that cut me off. I didn't want to hit the van."

"YOU DIDN'T USE YOUR TURN SIGNAL!" he shrieked.

"I'm sorry sir," I said again. "It all happened very quickly. I just didn't want to hit the van."

"LEARN TO USE YOUR BRAKES!" he said, angrily.

He lurched back to his car.

I sat in my vehicle and watched as he pulled his car into the heavy traffic and then moved, almost immediately into the left hand lane, driving at least twenty miles over the speed limit.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

This past weekend I went to Ohio to meet up with some fabulous people.

I didn't know these people.

It was pretty freaking weird.

So, to be fair? I did know them. Kind of. One of them I live in the same town as and we've become really good friends and it's never uncomfortable or weird with her (and God love her, after fourteen hours in a vehicle with me, she probably knows WAY more about me than she ever wanted to know). One other I had met once and loved. The other three? I didn't know in person.

But I knew them from the internet.

The internet people. Weird.

So you get to know these people and correspond pretty much on a daily basis for about four and a half years and then you finally get a chance to meet them and you're all like, "WHAT???!?!?!?" Because one of them lives in England and the others live in California and you just don't think it will ever happen. And then it does and it scares the frick out you.

I have horrible, horrible social anxiety. I get past it when I get to know people, but at first? I know this is hard to believe, but it is REALLY hard for me to talk to people and get to know people. I feel awkward. I feel unattractive, especially around really beautiful people (for example, the people I met this weekend). I wonder if they will like me. I wonder if they'll talk about my ass on the way home ("Oh my God Becky, did you see her butt?").

But it was okay.

It was better than okay. I physically harmed myself I laughed so hard.

And for me, it was even more than that. It was a change. It was something I had to challenge myself to do. And then when I got there? It wasn't hard at all. It wasn't uncomfortable at all. I felt like I belonged. I felt like I could be myself and they would be cool with me.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Well, for them it's the big time. They will be the oldest kids in the school. This will be the last year of recess. The last year of school during which they will stay in the same classroom all day. The last year of school that doesn't include things like school dances and acne. Or at least I hope it doesn't include acne.

They are growing up.

I have trouble thinking of them as any older than they are right now, today. I've always had problems with that, I suppose. When they were three I couldn't imagine them being older than three. When they are twenty, I imagine it will be hard to see them as adults, instead of kids.

It's amazing to me sometimes when I think about their lives and everything cool they have done. How far they've come from being tiny infants in incubators in an intensive care unit. How confident and strong they are. How they walk in, make friends, take risks, and do all these things that I couldn't have imagined doing at age ten.

I am amazed, often, at how someone who is as frustrated, needy, and awkward as myself can raise two people who are bright, independent, and...dare I say it? Normal.

Being normal is pretty awesome, y'all. Even if I only get to experience it by proxy.

Saturday, August 09, 2008

So I'm out of town right now and this is, seriously, the second time I've ever been out of town BY MYSELF, without the kiddos, in the past ten years. The first time was when Boy and Girl Child were about one and I went to be the Matron of Honor in a friend's wedding in another state. (Which, that just pissed me off by the way. My husband LEFT ME and we weren't living together, but we weren't legally divorced and my friend INSISTED that she would call me her MATRON. We aren't friends anymore. But anyway)

Boy Child, as is typical, was concerned about my leaving.

"Mom," he said on Thursday, "is this the weekend you are leaving us here alone?"

"Boy Child," I sighed. "You won't be alone."

"Well," he said quite seriously. "I have some concerns."

"Um, okay," I said. "But you have nothing to be worried about. Daddy will be here with you."

He stared at me and said,

"THAT'S WHAT I'M WORRIED ABOUT."

"Well son," I told him, trying not to laugh, "it will be fine. Don't worry."

"Well, what are his qualifications? Does he have any experience with children?"

Friday, August 08, 2008

I was flipping through my calendar earlier today and realized that the first day of Autumn is on September 22nd.

When I was a child, I always associated fall with going back to school. That was the end of summer for me. Now, I have kids who go back to school in early August and get out of school in May. Summer for me was swimming in the backyard pool (it was above ground but we were STILL the fanciest pants in the neighborhood). We didn't go on vacation. We didn't go to camp.

At the front of my dayplanner is a week by week schedule of where my children are this summer. Because, honestly, if I didn't write it all down like this I would completely forget and show up at the wrong place to pick them up and I'm already in the running for Suckiest Mother of the Year and frankly, I'm not in the mood to improve my chances. My kids have places to go and people to see. They are in constant motion throughout the entire summer.

I think it sucks for them.

They don't know any better fortunately. But I think if they had the opportunity to play all day in their own backyard and have picnics on the grass and wake up because the sun was coming out and not because an alarm clock was going off? Well, they'd probably run with it and never look back.

Life is so different for them than it was for me. I used to feel sorry for myself because I wasn't one of those kids who got to do everything and participate in all this stuff, and now when I see Girl Child fall asleep at the dinner table because she's so exhausted from the day's activities I think, "What the hell is happening here?"

They love their camp. They love their friends. They are very used to their schedule. They don't know any other way.

I want everything to slow down. Just for a while. Just so they can be kids for a while longer.

Boy Child: I saw on the television that you can get a herpes on your mouth.

Me: Well, that's true. But-

Boy Child: Am I going to have to take Valtrex mom? And warn my partner?

Me: Um, what?

Boy Child: I saw a commercial about Valtrex? And the girl said she had herpes and the boy said he didn't? And I don't know what a partner is mom. Is that like my sparing partner? Because I don't want to tell Isaac that I have herpes.

Monday, August 04, 2008

Sunday, August 03, 2008

I almost never hesitate when blogging. Really, almost never. Things happen, I talk about them. I mean, I said a long time ago that I wouldn't blog about my sex life. There's one other thing I won't blog or talk about either. But everything else has been pretty much fair game.

I'm not saying this is necessarily good or bad. It just is.

I haven't posted about the issue with Jason's relative. But it's been eating me up inside. I told some people about it they were nice and supportive. I told others who were not nice and supportive and basically think I'm a big idiot now.

The thing was, I couldn't win in this situation, no matter what I did.

Saturday, August 02, 2008

You know, I'm not quite sure what that was on your child's face. I mean, it was only 7:42am and the Deli/Bakery department was not yet open, so it couldn't be chocolate. But I digress.

The big container of Wet-Wipes at the front of the store? Was clearly labeled "LYSOL WIPES". Sir. You do NOT WIPE A CHILD'S FACE with LYSOL WIPES. The reason that the child started shrieking was NOT because he or she did not want their face washed. It was because whatever is in those Lysol wipes is not meant for the FACE. I mean, clearly you did not know this, because when I said, "Sir? Those are Lysol wipes" you gave me a distinct f-you look. It's meant to clean crap off countertops or, in the case of the supermarket, sticky stuff off the cart handles. Not the poop or chocolate or whatever was on your child's face.

DON'T DO THAT.

Thank you,A concerned parent

Dear bitch who was trying to check out,

Yes. You have to use the u-Scan. Everyone has to use the u-Scan before 8:30am. There are no lanes open. There is no one to scan your groceries for you. There is no one to pack your groceries back in your cart. There is no one to roll your cart out to your car and help you put the groceries in the back.

Saying, in a really snotty voice, to the grocery store clerk "I can't scan my own groceries! I have a MASTERS DEGREE" not only makes you look like a huge tool, but also makes you a completely vapid bitch. Also? Did you notice that clerk giving you a complete f-you look? Because she did.

And you still had to scan your own groceries.

You? Are a cockslap.

Have a great day!That Chick who had $200 worth of groceries and scanned every bit of it. With no assistance.

Dear two guys who were trying to make out without anyone seeing them,

Perhaps you two are not comfortable with your own sexuality or whatnot, but the produce aisle at the local Kroger is not the place to get your groove on. Especially before 8am.

Get a room.

Hugs!That Chick

Dear Crabby-ass two hundred year old man attempting to get your prescription,

Douche, please. Number one, the pharmacy WAS OPEN. Just because your crabby-ass didn't walk all the way around to verify this does not mean it wasn't true. You bitching at the grocery clerk just made you look like a douchebag.

Second, I know it was really early and everything, but dude. If you're going to be such a pissy little bitch, then SLEEP FOR ANOTHER HOUR instead of going to Kroger and being a dick to everyone. It's not rocket science.

Finally, even though you were a complete ass-face to the grocery clerk after you walked away (or stormed out, as much as two hundred year old man can "storm") she said, "That poor old man. He probably feels bad". And you know what? Maybe you do. And I'm sorry you do.

But my grandma? She died about a month ago. And she was 94. And she was in a lot of pain.

And she was still sweet and kind and pleasant and loving and I never, ever, EVER heard her say one bad word about anyone. Except Republicans.

So you know what? You make a choice to be an asshole. And that's your choice. But it's not because you are old.

It's because you are an asshole. Even if you feel bad. You're still just an asshole.